The 2nd Wasps
by WiLFy McMuffin
Summary: When cocky army Rifleman/Spotter Gregory Parkson is recruited into a new ace squad called the 2nd Wasps, he thinks life will get easier. After extensive training and live tests, the squad finally gets sent to Russia, where a new threat is dawning.
1. Prologue

_**Cameron McElwee**_

**Prologue**

Moscow, Russia

7th January 2002

"- and we will beat back the rebel scum, forcing them back into the gutter where they belong! Russia belongs to its citizens, and not vermin lowlife like Iv-"

Yuri Zietsev turned off the telivision. All day it had been filling the room with nonsense about the rebels. It was starting to tire him. He looked over his shoulder, and saw a man sat in a chair, bound by the wrists, blindfolded. Next to him were a couple of children, and the wife, also tied up and blindfolded. Two days they had been sat in that room, and for three more they would remain, unless of course, the Loyalists thought differently. The room was small, twelve by fourteen Zietsev guessed. It's walls were windowless, and only a single, metal door was placed on the furthest side from the prisoners. _No escape. _Zietsev was a good looking man in his early twenties. But the stress of the recent civil war was starting to show on his face.

There was a knock at the door, and a tall man walked in with an AK-74 assault rifle, dressed in a black hoody and blue jeans. It was his second in command, Lieutenant Letyev. He had only met Letyev three days ago, when they were sent on a mission to kidnap the civilian family. Eight men went on the operation, only two survived. It turned out the man of the house was better protected than the group had anticipated.

Letyev approached Zietsev, a stern look on his face.

"The enemy know we are in here, we need to finish, and get out." Letyev said. Zietsev nodded, and reached over to grab his rifle. As he grabbed the Dragonuv, he heard the faint rattle of gunshots from enemy were getting close. He pulled a fresh magazine from inside his coat pocket, and loaded it into the empty slot. His hand pulled back on the cocking handle, loading the first bullet into the chamber, and his other hand rested on the pistol grip. Zietsev turned to Letyev, and slowly nodded to him. He watched impatiently as Letyev pulled a Berretta 92 from it's holster, and pulled back on the top slide, loading a nine milimetre bullet into the chamber. There was a distant thunder of fighter jets, and a rumble from gunfire. Zietsev knew they were running out of time. He walked over to the family in the chairs, and untied the blindfolds from the wife and the two childrens faces. Instantly a look a horror flashed over their faces as they realized what was coming. Zietsev trondled back towards Letyev, who was now aiming the handgun at the fathers head. Zietsev took a final look at each member of the family. Dad was blindfolded, so there was no obvious facial expression. But by the shaking in his legs, you could tell he was scared. Just as anyone with any sense would have been in the same situation. A thick layer of dried blood was smothering the lower half of his face, what little light the room had was reflecting off of the crimson surface. The youngest of the two children, a young girl, peered into Zietsev's eyes, her brown hair caked with dust and dried blood. Her nose was broken, and her face was scratched. She couldn't have been any older than eight years old, but that didn't mean she deserved any less of a beating. The older of the two was staring at Zietsev furiously, his blue eyes burning with hatred, or was it regret? Zietsev couldn't tell. He seemed to be the cleanest of the family; no blood on his face apart from a few smears of his fathers, and only two bruises. No broken bones, no cuts, nothing serious at all. Zietsev had to admit it, the kid could fight. The mans wife was the worst looking of them all. One of her eyes had been cut open, her nose was bloodied and both of her lips were swollen. She had a large purple bruise on her left cheek, comparable in colour to a plum. The worst thing about her was the look in her good eye. She was beyond frightened. She knew she was going to die, and had accepted it valiantly. Little did she know, she would be walking out of here today.

Gunshots. They sounded louder this time, more like a hammer than a rumble. It wouldn't be long before the Loyalist army would catch them, and kill them gruesomely. Letyev still had his pistol raised to the mans head, eyes fuelled by hatred. _I can't keep this man waiting any longer._

"Do it," Muttered Zietsev calmly.

Letyev tensed his trigger finger slowly, and gave it a single squeeze. Then another, and another. He pulled the trigger fifteen times within four seconds. _Impressive, but unnessacary._ Each bullet had hit its intended target: The head of the father. The damage done by the first bullet would have been enough to kill him, the second would have been enough to assure his death. By the time the fifteenth bullet had hit, the mans face had been messed up so badly, it was completely unrecognisable. The blood from his head now coated the wall behind him, the face of his children, and his wife. It was a nasty job, but someone had to do it. Zietsev walked up to the children, and grabbed their heads violently. Then he slammed them together with as much force as he could, cracking their skulls open. Blood oozed from both their heads, flowing freely across their faces. He checked their eyes, and as soon as he was satisfied they were unconscious, cut them loose. Next was the mother. Her face was now covered with more blood, and it was hard to tell which was hers and which was her late husbands. _That doesn't matter, as long as i knock her out._ Zietsev pulled up the Dragonuv, and turned it round so that the butt was facing towards her. Before she had a chance to shed one more tear, the wooden stock of the rifle collided with her cheekbone, and she lost all consciousness, still tied to the chair. Zietsev pulled out the knife he'd used on the childrens ropes, and cut swiftly through her ties. She flopped freely to the floor. Zietsev looked back at Letyev, who was staring at him blankly. He didn't agree with letting the family go, but that didn't matter, Zietsev was the leader. Letyev holstered the Berretta, and re-equipped the AK-74. Zietsev stowed his Dragonuv onto his back, and pulled his handgun from his Holster. A sniper rifle wasn't ideal for the enviroment outside the room, and the Berretta was a perfect choice. There were footsteps outside the room, and quiet muttering in Russian. This was it, judgement time. Zietsev pulled the slide on his Berretta, and aimed it directly at the metal door as Letyev unbolted it from the inside.

_Time to face the music._


	2. Chapter One

**One**

Kandahar, Afghanistan.

19th December 2011

_Afghanistan... a shithole if i ever saw one. At war for hundreds of years, and only a little push until it could all be over, unless we fuck up. 'Simple operation' they called it. My ass! The only simple thing about this bullshit is the bit at the end: Strapping the seatbelt on in the extraction helicopter. The only thing i have here to help me now is a tempermental little girl with a sniper rifle, and my spotting abilities. But yet, if i fail, i'm fucked. The whole world will explode into conflict yet again. Thats not a risk i'm willing to take. I'd better not fuck up!_

That was just one of the things flowing through the mind of First Lieutenant Gregory Parkson as he looked down at a small factory outhouse. The outhouse had a massive window, probably about thirteen metres in diameter, and about two and a half high.

Led to his left was Anna Norgrove, a Corporal in the British army, and a damn good soldier if he ever saw one. She was led with a rifle propped against her shoulder, and her eye down the scope. He nudged her with his elbow to catch her attention, and when he realised he had suceeded, forced a smile from behind his balaclava.

"What do you want?" Norgrove asked fiercly.

"To annoy you," Parkson replied. "You should try it, it beats Xbox any day of the week."

"Please be quiet, can't you see i'm busy?"

"Thats exactly why i'm annoying you, because you THINK that you're busy!"

"Fuck off, knobhead."

"What was that?"

"Fuck off, knobhead, _sir_... better?"

"Grand." Parkson replied, sticking his left thumb up stiffly. "Just keep your sights on that window."

"Yes sir," Norgrove replied half-heartedly.

They had been camping there for seven days, waiting for Jamal Ahmed, leader of the infamous Taliban, to pop up in the target building. As soon as he did, they were going to take him out, hopefully taking the Taliban down a peg.

Parkson glanced at his watch, 0016 hundred; this meant Jamal was almost there, _not long now,_ he thought. The building they were in was an isolated apartment, complete with kitchen, bathroom and a bed. But they didn't use the majority of the facilities, as it would make things too obvious. Nobody was to know they were there. The apartment was a great vantage point over the facility that the Taliban leader, Jamal Ahmed was meeting with three other Warlords, were meeting. Two months ago, a sniper team in Iraq was tasked with a similar objective, to neutralize Al Qaeda leader, Osama Bin Laden. The operation succeeded, and Al Qaeda ceased to exist. Now for the final push in the war on terror, the termination of Ahmed. Since the Assassination of Bin Laden, security in these sorts of compounds has been surprisingly lax, and only three guards were stationed at the main gate. Maybe they didn't want anyone to know they were worried about it, but they'd be fools not to be. Parkson put his hand in his Ghillie suit pocket and pulled out a Yorkie chocolate bar, but before he had chance to unwrap it, his arm was nudged by Norgrove, and he accidently dropped it.

"Sir, are those headlamps?" Norgrove whispered with a tone of excitement.

"Yes, I see them, keep your eye on them, I'll keep watch on the gate." Parkson replied gruffly. He checked his watch again as the pair of headlights pulled up to the compounds gates, 0028 hours, _right on time._

"Norgrove, load up, it's time," He ordered calmly, while picking his Yorkie chocolate bar up off of the dirty carpet. He quickly split the wrapper, took a bite and tossed it to the side, picking up his M16A4 Carbine in preparation for the escape. Once the shot was fired, the Taliban would know they were there, and would most probably send a team of ragheads to search for them. He looked down the sight, and wiped the dust it had accumulated off of the glass. Finally he loaded a thirty round magazine into the slot, and cocked the firearm. After a whole four minutes of waiting, the truck from which the headlights had shown from, drove through the large set of metal gates, and disappeared from sight. All they could do now is wait, something they had been doing for the last few days, while waiting for the target to walk into Norgrove's line of fire. The waiting was excruciating. After a whole week of waiting, this small amount of time was nothing, but it felt like the worst part. It felt like being a child again, waiting for Christmas day to come tomorrow, after the whole year had just flown by. After what felt like hours, although it was more like minutes, a light switch was flicked on in the enemy compound, and two guards armed with AK-47's walked in, followed by a man in a suit. This man wasn't Ahmed, but another terrorist, called Rashid Abdul. Afterwards, another two armed guards walked in, this time armed with the more expensive, and reliable G3KA4. Instantly Parkson knew these were Jamal's personal guards, and he flinched. The two guards were looking around with high professionalism, checking each room corner and under the main table, before looking out of the window to check for intruders. Once they were satisfied there were no dangers, one of the guards used a hand gesture to usher Jamal Ahmed into the room. Jamal walked cautiously towards a chair in the centre of the table, and plonked himself down. But before he had a chance to get comfortable, the bodyguard that had ushered him in, pulled him out of the chair, and walked him out of their line of fire, to what Parkson assumed was the end of the table.

"Bollocks," Norgrove muttered. "How am I supposed to get him now?"

Parkson remained silent, observing the situation in the building. He looked through his binoculars, and had a good look at the wall outside the meeting room. He saw a small Taliban graffiti emblem on the outer wall, just about where he guessed Jamal would have been sat. He knew exactly what to do.

"Norgrove, see that small graffiti mark on the wall about three foot to the left of the window?" he asked calmly.

"Yes," She replied curiously.

"When I say go, shoot at it, set nine-hundred meters range, understand?"

"But…"

"Understand?" He asked her again, this time with command in his voice.

"Yes, give me a minute to line it up." She replied with a huff in her voice.

Parkson could tell she hated being ordered around, but she had no choice.

Norgrove turned the L96 around slightly on its bipod, and steadied it up, her finger ready on the trigger. Sweat beads were dripping from her forehead, she knew she couldn't miss.

"With any luck, the round will blow through that wall with ease, taking our little raghead friend with it, so don't worry about it, it's going to work. In your own time, take the shot," Ordered Parkson. "Oh and Anna, don't worry, it will work." Norgrove was thankful for his support, but it didn't make her feel any better. She flicked the Safety catch forward: forward meant it was ready to fire. After a few seconds adjusting the sights, she squeezed on the trigger. In an instant the bullet propelled itself from the barrel of the gun, and flew towards the wall, impacting almost instantly after fired from the rifle. The round tore through the thin, worn wall, and left a huge gaping hole, before flying through the room and ripping another hole in the other side. Parkson cursed himself for the miss, knowing all to well that he shouldn't have tried to guess where Jamal was sitting. Norgrove bolted the rifle, and glared at Parkson. He could tell she was angry because her eyes glistened, making them look like diamonds. He looked back at the building; he saw all four of the guards had stiffened, pointing their guns helplessly around the room. Then he saw Jamal appear in the window again, shouting in the face of one of the guards. Parkson knew this was his only chance.

"Norgrove, shoot him!" He barked.

Norgrove hesitated, she was nervous, after missing the first time, she was shaking, her sweat was soaking her now, and she felt as if she was going to cry.

"Shoot him!" Parkson yelled, now angry.

She didn't move, now almost crying. But before she could even do anything else, Parkson had yanked the rifle off of its bipod, aimed, and fired a single round. The 7.62 round soared through the air to its target, and smacked strait into Ahmed's head, leaving not much left of it. He bolted the weapon a final time, still looking out over the compound. Norgrove stood up, grabbing her AK-47 on the way, and touched Parkson on the shoulder in an effort to apologize. He ignored this, and stowed the rifle on his back, before picking up his M16A4. He looked at Norgrove, he couldn't see much of her face, it was too dark, but he knew she was upset. He barged past her and walked out of the apartment door into the corridor, before turning right and disappearing. Norgrove followed him cautiously, her face wet with sweat or tears, she didn't know. When she exited the apartment, she saw Parkson backed up against a wall, looking around a corner. It was lucky it was pitch black, because otherwise two armed soldiers wearing Ghillie suits would have been easy to detect. Parkson pulled himself back round the corner, and then made a hand gesture to explain that the staircase was clear. Before Norgrove could say anything he was off again, prancing down the stairs silently. When he reached the bottom, he peered around the next corridor towards the lobby. All was quiet, just as he wanted. He ushered Norgrove down the stairs as he kept an eye on the corridor. Nothing moved, _just as well,_ he thought. He lifted his hand and rotated three of his fingers anti-clockwise, meaning follow him. So Norgrove did, they walked soundlessly to the end of the corridor, seemingly without a hitch. Suddenly Parkson raised his hand and clenched his fist, which meant hold position. He peered around the next corner for a second, before turning back to her and sighing. She knew what was coming before he said anything.

He raised four fingers and pointed towards the lobby. _Just typical_ she thought, sweating with panic even more. Parkson looked around the corner again, this time not returning so quickly. But when he did, he wiped his brow and put his thumb up. The four tangos had got into the elevator, instead of taking the stairs. Which meant life would be much easier for them. He walked around the corner, and ran to the first item of cover he saw. After looking around the check the lobby was clear, he told her to form up on him using hand gestures, and then moved on to the next item of cover. Norgrove looked around too, she failed to ever notice the native beauty of Middle Eastern arts. She looked at the Banners hanging from the second floor railings, although she couldn't see much of them, she knew they were expensive. Parkson moved swiftly through the lobby, stepping soundlessly over shards of glass from the lobby windows, before sliding into cover behind the reception counter. He did a final check of the room, making sure every corner was clear, before calling Norgrove over with a swift hand movement. Norgrove did the exact same thing, checking all corners before walking, soundlessly, to the reception counter. Just as she arrived, Parkson hopped over the counter, and took cover by the front door, gesturing Norgrove to follow him. They stepped out into a desolate alleyway, the floor cracked and dry, and the buildings not much better. Parkson made the first move, briskly hopping behind a bin before checking his surroundings. As soon as that was done, he called Norgrove over. They did this multiple times through the alleyway, making sure they were not seen. Every few seconds, Parkson would tell Norgrove to hold position because he heard something, but it usually turned out to be some kind of rodent. After about quarter of an hour of the same routine, they had found themselves at the end of the alleyway. Parkson took cover by a wall and looked in one direction. Norgrove took position at the other wall, and looked the other. Parkson was shocked at what he saw: a whole convoy of maybe seven T80 tanks driving through the town, with at least twenty foot soldiers with AK-47's escorting. Parkson had no idea whether these were Taliban rebels, or the Afghan National Army, but either way he was not to be detected by them. The T80 was a main battle tank, armed with an one-hundred and twenty millimeter smoothbore cannon as it's main weapon, and a seven point six two millimeter mounted machine gun mounted as it's defense, they were not to be trifled with. Parkson sunk down into a corner and waited for the tanks to pass. After about five grueling minutes the last foot soldier disappeared into the dark street beyond, meaning Parkson and Norgrove could move on. They moved out into the open road, and transferred into another small alleyway, which they could see led to a lit up area. Parkson checked his watch again, the time was now 0045, _that's not good_, thought Parkson. The Chinook helicopter was picking them up a mile out of the town at 0100 hours, which meant they had fifteen minutes to escape the city, and get to the rendezvous point. Parkson shrugged this progress impeding thought off of his shoulders, and continued checking the corners. Soon enough he grew impatient, briskly moving between the cover items, but forgetting to check the area was clear before moving on. He just wanted to get to the rendezvous point, preferably before the helicopter left them behind. They wound through a series of streets, moving at a fast pace to reduce chances of being late, which would, needless to say, be a disaster. Finally, after a few long minutes of running, they came across the final checkpoint guarding Kandahar. If they could get past this checkpoint, they would be home free. Parkson stopped and hid around the final corner, as did Norgrove. He took a quick glance at the guard post; there were five guards, all of which were armed with AK-47's. Parkson needed to work fast if they were to get past these insurgents in time, without any casualties. He could see plenty of ways around this checkpoint, but the inconvenience was that the enemy would have been able to see them move from a mile away, as the city lights were still shining. Eventually he came to the conclusion that sneaking around was out of the question, they would have to kill them and run before the rest of Kandahar was awakened. He took a few minutes to formulate a plan in his head, and a way to execute it.

"Ok, Anna, we are going to take them out, take your sniper rifle off my back, and find a position where you have a good view of the target." Explained Parkson, feeling quite pleased with himself for thinking of that so quickly.

Norgrove just looked at him in awe, after her little display earlier; she was surprised he trusted her with anything.

"Why me," she asked Parkson, "you are obviously better than me."

"I hate sniper rifles, and you are officially the sniper, meaning it's your job to snipe."

She didn't happy at all, but Parkson couldn't care less. He had a job to do.

"Look Anna, that was my bad back there OK? I shouldn't have tried to guess that was exactly where he was. It wasn't you who missed, it was me, so just get on with your fucking job!" He whispered loudly. "And next time you cry in the battlefield, i will gouge your fucking eyes out with a spoon!"

She looked skeptical and upset, but that wouldn't make Parkson any easier on her. She needed to be taught how to cope in the battlefield.

"Please can you do it sir?" She stuck her bottom lip out. "Please?"

"No, and if you don't stop winding me up, I'll tell the OC when we get back," Parkson warned her. Norgrove raised her eyebrow anrgily, probably thinking up some nice curses to use on him. Parkson took the L96 rifle off of his back and loaded two rounds into the six round chamber, replacing the two that were expended earlier, before pushing the bolt into the loaded position, then he passed it to Norgrove.

"Do me a favor?" He asked her sternly.

She turned to look at him, her head tilted to the side slightly.

"Yes?" She replied

"Don't bloody bottle this time, for both our sakes."

Norgrove shook her head in disapproval of his comment, before climbing up onto a big dumpster, and scrambling onto a low roof overlooking the guard post. The five guards looked very casual, chatting and smoking, with their AK's slung over their shoulders. Three of them were gathered together under a light, another patrolling the gate, and the final inside of the guard hut. She instantly knew which one she was shooting first: One of the men in the group, the furthest from her.

Parkson pulled his rifle from his back and loaded a magazine into it, then he pulled the cocking handle. He was ready. The M16 was a relatively old rifle, dating back from the Vietnam War. They chamber a 5.56 round in a thirty round magazine, usually fired in three shot bursts, but often used in semi-automatic. The old M16's had a reputation of breaking down, and jamming in the most inconvenient of circumstances, such as firefights. But the new M16A4 was a different story. It had had most of the kinks worked out, and it could support a number of modifications. Parkson's had a 3x and 6x scope mounted on the top of it, and also a laser sight attached to the barrel. Not forgetting the silencer he could optionally equip also. That would have been ideal for the current situation, but also pointless as Norgroves gun was louder than a thunderclap, so they would have been compromised anyway. If the Guards saw him, it wouldn't be long before they started shooting. He was going to have to rely on Norgrove to take out some of them before he could move in for the rest. Once she fired her first shot, he was going to fire a short controlled three shot burst.

Norgrove was ready now, she had set her rifle up on its bipod and she was led in the prone position on the roof. She had altered the rifles scope to the range that she had estimated the enemy was at, and she was ready to take the shot. After a few seconds waiting for the opportune moment, she gently pulled the trigger. The bullet shot from the L96's long barrel, and ripped through the air with ease, slamming into the back of the first guards head, tearing a massive hole. She bolted the rifle and watched as the remaining four guards all ran towards the corpse of the first guard.

Parkson heard the massive roar of a bullet being discharged from the L96, right before the shell made a mess of the Taliban guard. It may have been a small rifle, but that thing packed a humongous punch in the right hands, as Norgrove just demonstrated. He didn't have time to think, he saw all four of the remaining guards inspecting the corpse now, guns at the ready. Parkson had to act. He looked down the scope of his M16 and lined up a shot on one of the guards skulls. Before even pondering whether this was the right move, he squeezed the trigger, and watch with satisfaction as three 5.56 millimeter rounds whacked into one of the armed personnel. Parkson followed the shots through with another three burst from the rifle. Four of the rounds flew into a guard's chest and another to his neck, as another two hit a second guard in the face. Just then, the final guard turned to look at him, and started firing his AK-47 wildly on fully automatic, hoping to hit him. Parkson was just about to shoot him in the face, but before he could do anything, there was a loud bang, and the guard flopped over to his right, a massive gaping hole in his chest. Parkson wiped the sweat from his face, and caught a glimpse of his watch.

The time now read 0056 hours, they were in trouble. He jumped up onto the dumpster that Norgrove had used to climb onto the shed roof, and tugged on her Ghillie suit legs.

"Norgrove come on, we are late!" He screamed, no longer caring about being heard or seen. Speechlessly Norgrove grabbed her rifle, and jumped off of the roof, landing on the dumpster. Then she jumped onto the floor, and they both started running at a fast pace through the checkpoint they had so quickly cleared. They hadn't been running for two minutes when they heard the alarm. Parkson assumed the guards must have seen the bodies, that was the only logical explanation, unless…

Before Parkson finished thinking, he heard the distant rumble of a helicopters engine, which must have been their ride. He grabbed Norgrove by the hand, and started running even faster, dragging her along, all while the city of Kandahar was shrinking behind them. The noise was getting louder, the sound now unmistakably a Chinook. Anybody who had worked with a Chinook before would know that it was a unique aircraft. With its two tandem rotors working in unison, it made a hell of noise. Parkson could see the Chinook now, its huge bulk clearly visible in the night sky, and its lights glowing extravagantly. Slowly but surely, the huge metal beast touched down, only a few meters ahead, and lowered the ramp at the rear. The noise was painfully loud by now, thumping and hammering inside of Parkson's head like it was being attacked from the inside. Parkson was sweating like mad, his eyes were watering, and his legs were aching. He wanted it to be over now. He kept running, with Norgrove right behind him, at an extremely high speed that an athlete would have been proud of, and eventually they reached the Chinook helicopter. They circled round to the rear of the chopper, and slowly entered it via its rear loading ramp, before dropping their packs of weapons. Norgrove then dropped herself onto one of the seats that lay along the side of the aircraft, and sighed with relief. Parkson didn't have time to get settled just yet. He had to confirm that this was his ride, and tell them that he was here if it was. So he braced himself up and walked towards the cockpit. As he entered the cockpit, he saw large amounts of computerized equipment, lights and analogue instruments dotted along the panel. To his right he saw the masked pilot sat in their seat, head back against the rest at the top of the seat. To his left he saw the co-pilot, who had no mask on, but their face was still indistinguishable in the dark. Parkson remembered the name of the pilot that was assigned to pick him up, which he knew would have been useful in the future.

After a few seconds of looking around the cockpit, he tapped the pilot on the shoulder, and cleared his throat.

"Flying Officer Broadberry?" he asked quietly. He hated meeting new people, especially if they were a higher rank than him. The pilot didn't reply, just kept reading the instruments. He was just about to ask again when a deep, stern voice came from behind him, it was the Co-pilot.

"Yes, that's Broadberry, are you Parkson?" He said calmly.

"Yes sir, Lieutenant Parkson." Started Parkson. It was always good to call any officer sir. Even if their rank was unknown to you, you should always respect them. That didn't seem the case for the other guy.

"Look mate, I am tired, and don't really care what your rank is. Either way, i outrank you, now get in the fucking back."

"Sorry?"

"Our job is to pick you up and get you back safely. We don't really want to be talking to you as well, as it wasn't part of the deal. So like i said, fuck off in the back."

At this Parkson turned and left the cockpit, sat back down next to Norgrove, who was already asleep. Suddenly the Chinook lurched forwards, and within seconds, they were airborne, heading back to England after a job well done. Or something like that.


End file.
